changing of the seasons
by lydiamartins
Summary: The world keeps on falling. -— clovecentric, for nicole


kudos to you if you know who the person in the picture is; _prompt; _"welcome to the inner workings of my mind; so dark and foul i can't disguise"

(thank you to _amelia _for beta-reading this mess!)

**changing of the seasons**  
clovecentric, slight clovecato

.

Clove is born in the midst of winter —

It's a hard, difficult birth, and when her eyes first open, she receives the snarling look from her mother who looks at her with something akin to disappointment — _she's a girl, Mason, nothing more than a girl _— and even though Clove's barely a few minutes old, her parents look at her as though she's their biggest disappointment and give her the name of their second choice.

(They name her Clove and lie, saying she'll grow up to be great, someday.)

.

_Is Daddy coming home today? _Clove asks, hopping off the steel counter — it's been five years, and nothing but the same look of regret in her mother's muddled eyes. _You said that he would back from the Capitol, today. What's taking him so long? _She traces her fingers along a blank sheet of paper, a luxury in a town like this, wiping her hands which drip with dewdrops and rainwater from playing outside, messy smile with chocolate crumbs falling down her rosy red cheeks, baby fat still clinging on at the age of five.

Her mother takes in a sigh and puts down the dishes, placing them gently into the sink, as though everything these days is fragile enough to break with a tight grasp. _Clove, darling, you know that President Snow is a busy man; he can't just change his schedule for people like us. Your father will try to come home today, but anyway, it's not important that he comes now, it's important that he gets the deal. It'll secure our place in society, _she says and then adds underneath her breath, _like you would understand this. _

_But it's my birthday, _Clove points out. _It's my sixth birthday tonight and Daddy promised that he would be home today; _there's a ring of the doorbell just then and she hops off the stool, tip-toe feet pattering across the hardwood mahogany floors, and she launches herself into her father's arms who smells vaguely of red wine and scented jasmine. _Daddy, why do you smell like that? _It's not her mother's perfume, she knows that much; her mother smells like a combination of roses and lilies, hand-picked flowers from the family garden.

Her mother walks into the room, hands placed in the pockets of the apron, blonde hair falling slightly out of an otherwise perfect bun, stains of gray falling off on the sides; _Clove, darling, why don't you go upstairs to your room?_

_It's my birthday, mom. All the other children have their parents celebrate for their birthdays — they say it's just another year until they can have the glory of winning the Games, but I mean, it's not like that for me, but I'd still like to have my dad home for my birthday, _she murmurs; a crayon snaps and Clove, with guilt, hides them underneath the tablecloth and her mother distractedly wipes down the already dry counter.

Her mother takes a breath, _we have a surprise for you, so we need to get the present out of the new car, and wrap it with the new paper in the basement, so just go upstairs, okay? We'll call you downstairs when we're ready? _Clove resists the urge to refuse the offer, instead retreating up the butterfly staircase, fingers flying across the mahogany banister, feet balancing on the edge of the carpet, into the solace of her bedroom. She slides down against the floor, and that's when the yells from downstairs start - she grips onto her stuffed panda, nails digging into the animal's eyes, anything to keep her from falling off the edge - and there's the eventual, anticipated bang of the door, and Clove walks out of the room, eyes hesitant.

_Mommy? _She murmurs, walking down the staircase; Clove nearly trips on the last step, but her mother advances forward, Clove walking back up the butterfly staircase that used to be beautiful.

_What do you want, you ungrateful little mistake? _She spits out, eyes blazing with uncontrollable fire, _it's your fault for this, you know. It's always been your fault, _she continues, and Clove backs up against the peeling walls in response; her mother retreats back to the master bedroom, and Clove hears the collapse upon the expensive mattress and then a series of heaving sobs.

.

Clove steps hesitantly into the house, and imagines the staircase crumpling under her feet into ashes, ashes flapping away into the creation of heavily ascent; her father walks into the room, with an expression of undistilled anger and a bottle of bourbon clenched within his pallid fingers; his face is pale and red veins bulge out of his eyes, as if he's been infected.

Her father leans against the wall, and Clove backs up as though the action is almost in instinct; there's a few moments of silence in between where Clove just wonders how everything had escalated so quickly, because one moment, her father had been the same, somehow distinct paternal figure that drifted here and there, three-piece suit always donned and he smelled like lotion from a Capitol ad; when he was younger, he used to cut her bananas even though her mother told him to let her grow up, and it was like a little secret between two of them. She stares into the foul workings of his inner mind, and it's almost as though for a moment, Clove can see the clockwork functions of his brain, twisting into place as though he recognizes the girl before him (his own daughter, no less), and then winding a bit too far, all the different handmade pieces of the clock exploding into a cacophonous symphony of dissonant screams.

Clove doesn't scream when he roughly handles her neck, when he slams her into the wall, blindly yelling that this is all her fault, she's the one who ruined his whole life - he had a whole future before she was born, before her older brother was born (but then he died before the age of four) - and now everything was all ruined. She cringes as her body is thrown against the rough surface of the floor, a surface completely different from the glossy linoleum floors that she had once seen in a Capitol advertisement, but life wasn't as glamorous as that; in response, Clove bites her lip, watching the blood drop out of her head, and after a few more punches, her father collapses upon the floor, heavy sobs wracking his body and she almost feels bad for him, because despite everything, he's still her father and she's still 'daddy's-little-girl' except not quite. She stands up slowly, disproportionately large feet to her small frame standing up and applying slight pressure upon the caved-in hardwood flooring, and grabs a stray cloth from the kitchen, wrapping it tightly around the blood that drips from her head and wonders where her mother was now.

She really could have used her mother at a time like this. Clove hears the ring of a doorbell and runs up the butterfly staircase from the back entrance, peering from the top floor into the open door that leads onto the scene of her father's body, lying on the floor, drunken; the Peacekeepers (she assumes that they're census officials, sending around the yearly forms for the Reaping) look at each other, conflicted for a moment before walking up the staircase, and Clove realizes what's going to happen — they're going to find her, and they're going to assume that she did this to her father, because in a world like District Two, the older man with more respect built up around town, larger amounts of money, will always be held as the victor. So, she does the inevitable —

Run. Clove bursts out the back door, ignoring the alarm that's formed by the security system because she knows that the Peacekeepers are right behind her and it's not as though she can run from District Two or ensconce herself in the perimeter of the woods, but there has to be something she can do because Clove can see her life falling down the drain before her eyes, so with a heavy heart, her legs keep on pushing her forward; it feels as though there's a pounding in her brain, and her eyes flutter closed now and then. She trips over a branch, legs sprawled out in front of her, her ankle feeling something akin to broken, and she quickly tries to get up, supporting herself on the side of a broken road on the outskirts of town, winding path. The Peacekeepers are only coming closer and closer, and out of the corner of her eye, Clove spots a familiar looking blonde boy (he's Cato Ludwig, of course, golden boy - sweet, nice kid who'll probably never amount to anything victorious) who stares at her as though she's lost and maybe lost is exactly what she needs.

The Peacekeepers run up to them, hands in their pockets, clutching onto some sort of weapon that's in their pockets, expressions concealed underneath large gas masks, as if District Two's poverty is a disease they can catch. _Boy, did you see where the criminal went?_

_I think that she went that way, _he says calmly, motioning towards the directions of the far-off woods; Clove swallows a gulp and nods at him ever so slightly before taking off into the opposite direction, feet pounding and her ankle only twisting even worse, but she makes it the outskirts of town, to the riverbed underneath the swaying willow trees and falls into the tranquil ripples of the ice, breaking into freezing water and the pain stings for moments before the inevitable rushing cool. Clove stays for the night underneath the tree, ensconced under layers of cold snow, pallid face and numb toes and hands, but they're only extremities, of course, and sees the torch of a lamplight in the distance, and presses snow to the bruises and scabs.

(And every fire is a lesson learned.)

.

_I want to train for the Games, _she tells nobody. Clove takes the initiative (because it's not like there's anybody left anymore to do this for her) to walk over to the training center at the Academy in the middle of town, a light green tank top that fits lightly across her slender frame, chocolate hair with lighter highlights strung up in a thick ponytail, and baggy black-and-white shorts which hang off her thighs, all bones and barely any muscle left from the years of oblivious fathers and a string of reusable step-mothers, who were more like Kleenex than anything else — _stay with them for a few months or so, and then throw them in the garbage can _— who couldn't care less about their newest problem step-child.

The woman at the front counter looks at her as though she's nothing, just a mere nuisance but sends her off to one of the Level Three rooms with a bored look and a file full of papers. Girls like her aren't meant to be training for the Games - girls like her are meant to be sitting at home, learning how to cook and sew for their future husbands with their mothers, knitting socks for their fathers, but Clove doesn't have a mother and her father has other girls for that, so it's inevitable that she would up here, along with the rest of the messed-up, cynical kids who are preparing themselves for a glorious win, yet more often than not, a foolish death. She walks through the center paved path of the training room, hearing their mutters - _so, unless she's good at a weapon or big for her age, there's been some sort of mix-up._

_Are you even looking at her, idiot? Of course, there's been a mix-up; unless, she's good with a weapon, which I doubt. You need size and strength for knife-throwing, and she obviously doesn't have any of that._

Malachite green eyes narrow and she stares into the depth of the room, target placed thirty feet above the ground on the other side of the room; Clove grabs a black velvet sash, securing it around her eyes, concealing her from the looks of ignorance and pride and stupidity. She fingers the knife in her hand as if the antique is something lost, but then found, and launches the weapon into the air. There's the satisfying thud of the weapon hitting its target across the training room, and Clove removes her sash quickly, knot tangled in her fingers, and places something akin to a smirk upon her facial features, daring.

.

She makes a foolish, foolish decision at the age of eleven —

Clove walks back up to the grey two-story house, nails broken, veins pounding with blood and her head tells her _don't do this, don't do this _and her paper heart pushes her through the door, sluggish movements with reluctance. Her fingers glide over the translucent surface of the glassy knife, the diamond embedded at the top casting a gruesome reflection with harsh shadows across her narrowed facial features of nervous and unsettled splattered across her face but quickly recomposed into indifference, and hears the loud footsteps on the second floor of the mansion, a harbinger of death. _Where the hell have you been, you little_ — He moves toward her with sluggish movement, right hand grasping around an empty class, different liquids forming together into an analogous concoction of drowning sorrows.

She keeps her chin up, opening the door to her bedroom; he follows her up the crumbling staircase, and Clove pushes the door closed. Her father pushes lightly back against the door, and she tries in vain to slam the door in his face, maybe something to snap him out of his drunken state because he didn't always use to be like this, or maybe he had been. _You can't do this anymore, dad. Go away, please; just leave, and then maybe mother will come back._

_You're such a disappointment, Clove, always have been, always will be, _he utters out; she knows that it's pointless and stupid, but Clove lets herself falter for a moment before putting back on a façade of nonchalance because '_conceal, don't feel_' is the motto of the Academy, and it's the only way of survival; he throws her against the wall, and she lies numbly upon the floor, the knife launching from her feeble hands into the center of his torso; mission complete, she thinks weakly, her head pounding.

Stars flicker out in shades of red and blue and white, brilliant hues of neon colors competing for her attention, pulling her back to the brevity of life, but she lets go for a moment and conceals herself in the safety and oblivion of darkness.

.

Summers and winters and snowy Decembers fly by — Clove sits underneath the willow tree and engraves her initials upon the bark with her jeweled knife which in the corners of her mind still retain the stench of her father's oxygenated blood, scrubbed away hard with laundry detergent. The knife falls out of her hand once, skimming across the protected surface of her thigh, skidding down her lower legs, nicking a small cut by her knee, and the blood drips down onto the fake, plastic grass. Clove stares at the liquid as though it's something foreign, and fingers it in fascination. _Careful, now; we wouldn't want for you to be put in the Sanitarium, now would we?_

She narrows her malachite eyes into slits, tilting her chin up to face the gleaming rays of too-cheerful sunlight, thawed lips bitten, scabs drying. _And who exactly are you supposed to be?_

_A friend. I used to come here too, just to think about anything. _He stands in a way that's almost awkward, knees slightly bent as he walks underneath the swaying branches of the willow tree; a broadsword lays in the back of his pocket, tied around with a belt to secure the weapon and a knife is easily concealed within his waterproof training uniform jacket.

Clove takes a breath, standing up, and brushing the blood stains from her fingers onto the green grass, and it almost looks like that Games tape from three years ago, with the insane Career who had gone mad and killed her entire alliance, their blood mixing into the water and into the grass until it was diluted specks of red on a green, somewhat peaceful ambiance, concealing the previous amounts of bloodshed. _What's your point - can't you just leave now? I'm in the middle of a crisis._

_You can tell me, _he says, stony blue eyes sparkling with innocence, and Clove rolls her up to the skies because it's not the first time that somebody's repeated those cliché words to her, and as soon as her secret is revealed, it'll just be taken to the officials at the Academy, and she'll be taken down from the unofficial roster, sentenced to a life within a jail cell, guarded by Peacekeepers and shadowed walls, the situation vivid in Clove's mind.

_I'm sorry, not really sorry but, I'm not so stupid to trust a complete stranger with my life's secrets, so I'll have to turn down your ever-so-generous offer._

He sits down on the grass next to her, ignoring the blood red-and-brown stains that are scattered across her leg; behind his wavering eyes, she places the knife in her right hand, for when the situation got a little out of hand; Clove had learned never to trust strangers, that everybody was a potential enemy (in the Games) and the Games were her life. _I'm__ Cato Ludwig._

_I know who you are, _she says, sharply, incising the knife into a stray rotting apple, convoluted to the core. They sit in amicable silence underneath the willow tree, fingers entwined with fresh blades of grass.

.

Clove sits underneath the willow tree, fingers entwined with the grass; dandelion seeds fly through the misty air and memories of childhood dreams, now crushed, lie within her grasp. Her feet lead her towards the water, and she stares down into the tranquil state of the pond, her reflection seen through the ripples which soon fade away, a rush of water pouring down from the Capital-controlled dam. She stares into the water as though it's a fire, glowing embers causing her to fall into some sort of trance, a gravitational force that Clove soon pulls out of, focusing on the weapon which lies between the grasp of her hands. There's a subtle movement in the fiery-colored bushes behind her, and a genetically engineered bird flows in a flock overhead, squawking loudly as though a harbinger of doom to come. She resists the urge to run from her problems and instead twists the knife in her hands, raising it above her head and ready to throw the fatal weapon and a figure appears out of the bushy clearing and she throws the knife.

It spins out of control with increasing celerity, landing in the hand of the figure who once illuminated within the backing of the sunlight, straw-coloured hair catching in the radiance of the sky, stony blue eyes flickering with something akin to amusement. _Were you trying to kill me? I understand where you're coming from, but if you want to kill me, you might as well wait until the Games. That is, if I don't kill you first._

_Don't you have somebody else to terrorize, Cato?_ Clove notes, staring at the illuminated figure before her, standing up from her seat underneath the willow tree, ignoring the way that her initials have long faded, the erosion of the water pressing against the rock, because it's to face the inevitable, that everything fades, and she'd rather not face the inevitable from now on.

_You're more fun,_ Cato comments in response, sitting down beside her, grabbing the knife from her reluctant hands who clutch another knife behind her back, for when training sessions get a little too competitive, which is more often than not.

She takes a breath, standing up and brushing the grass off of her training uniform, allowing for the stains to remain on her legs, blood stains and scabs forming on her thighs - she knows that there are band-aids and new medical inventions sent in all the way from the Capitol to some of the more élite centers where she trains, but Clove likes the marks. They're like battle scars, she thinks, something that shows her valiance and superiority over the rest of the children who cloak themselves in full-length bodysuits, as if they'll be so lucky when it comes down to the Games._ I wasn't trying to be,_ Clove only replies, walking in the opposite direction.

_Are you going back to the training center?_ He asks, his legs lengthened; bruises are formed on the backs of them, running down his arms in a way that it looks almost self-inflicted, but the marks are scrupulous enough for Clove to know that they were planned, for no purpose other than proving one's superiority and simply terrorizing the newbie trainees.

_No, I'm headed back to my house,_ she says. _You're welcome to come if you'd like,_ she adds on, sarcastic tone that Cato deliberately ignores, falling into an easy gait with her; she nearly trips over her maladroit feet, and Cato sends her a gleaming smile without the threat of her imminent death and Clove thinks that this is probably just another one of the tricks that the upperclassmen boys at the training center have pulled on her, but she's smarter than to trust the first good-looking boy that's approached her since the second week of training._ I didn't actually mean that, y'know._

He doesn't say anything in response, and they walk in tense silence, Clove clutching onto her knife, Cato's hands placed casually into his pockets. She makes her way over the white-picket fences and past the perfect District 2 houses with the St. Bernards and two children who never have to train for the Games, past the golden Victor's Village with a slight look of envy passing through her malachite eyes, almost in a sense of longing, past everything until the two reach the outskirts of town, and she walks in through the open door of a grey two-story house, hardwood flooring damaged through the years, the scent of whiskey and bourbon floating through the air.

Clove hears the thumping footsteps from the second floor and lets herself inhale a small gulp - this can't be possible, she knows that it can't, it's all in her brain, the guilt of killing her own father and all that but he killed the child that she used to be, so it's all to different, now is it? - because the footsteps are getting closer. She reaches for the knife inside of her back pocket, dangling it in front of her face in a way that could be perceived as dangerous as if not for her trembling hand and the way that sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip, something that's never supposed to happen. She can't lose her focus, out of all times, now, when it actually counts.

_What the hell are you doing?_ Cato asks, standing in front of her, waving his right hand in front of her face. In a swift motion, she slaps his hand away, and contorts it so that it reaches his other hand behind his back in an almost spraining motion. _I think you broke my arm_, he mutters, straightening out his left hand as though he hasn't faced worse injuries before.

_I only sprained it - stop being such a baby,_ she only says, looking back for a moment just to make sure that she didn't maim her training partner. Of course, that would only led to the inevitable lawsuits from the Ludwig family, prices that Clove couldn't possibly afford when the economy was already being suppressed by the overbearing taxes and inflation rates of the Capitol. _Anyway, haven't you learned to defend yourself by now?_

_I don't carry my sword along with me at all times, not anymore at least,_ he comments, straightening his arm back into alignment with another swift motion, the slightest sound and crack audible through the almost auspicious silence that feels the once tranquil house.

_Why not?_ Clove asks, prevaricately, her tone misleading and distracted, any sounds to dwarf the increasingly loud pounding that stretches through her ears, infiltrating the outskirts of her brain.

_Because I don't see the reason of proving to everybody else that I can defend myself - if I need to do that, then that means that I have some sort of self-doubt or low self-confidence, which I don't. Everybody else already knows that I'm the best male trainee of Rank Eleven, so there's no reason I need to prove it to anyone. Why do you carry your weapon? Scared?_ He taunts.

_To defend myself,_ she replies sharply, her tone cutting like ice through the still ambiance; the footsteps pound in her head, and Clove clutches the temples of her head, something akin to scarring in the back of her brain, and the pain feels as though somebody's digging a knife or a medical tool in the back of her scalp, and it feels like death. She falls to the floor, eyes blankly staring up at Cato who looks at her with a muddled expression with something akin to either confusion or worried, more of the primer than the latter simply because he's Cato Ludwig, and boys like him don't care about insignificant people like her.

.

Summers and winters and snowy Decembers past until all that's left is a shell of people who used to have such wonderful, innocent lives; Clove fingers the bejeweled knife within her worn grasp, examining the way that her tanned fingers wrap around the slender weapon, lithe hand flipping it over until it lies on the back of her palm. Clove traces the dull edge of the blade across her palm, indentations upon green and blue veins which stand out in the cold midst of winter. She lets blood stains remain upon her knife now, solely because Clove's heard the whispers and mutters of how a girl of her size will never amount to anything within the Games unless she drapes herself on the balcony of leaves and sneaks out at night, transforming from omniscient bird to vicious predator.

It's anything from the definition of a valorous winner, and the crowd wouldn't want to see somebody who wins because of their wit and trickery - that's not what the point of the Games are. Clove thinks that the point of the Hunger Games is to take children with long lives ahead of them and twist them into prey or predator; the victors are donned with valorous colors and the rest of their lives are something out of a utopia — Clove thinks that it really is worth it to risk her own life for the possibility of perfection even though it's more likely than not that she could die in the process. Nevertheless, every district who's worthy enough grabs the opportunity to send their best-chance tributes into the Arena to prove to the rest of the districts that they're best, children dying over conflicts of pride. _Do you want to die? _He sits down beside her, and she flinches, after all these years.

_I'm not going to die - I'm going to win, _she recites (because it's her mantra).

_That's what they always say,_ Cato only replies, his tone slightly cryptic, and Clove rolls over onto her stomach, and then back up into a cross-legged position, twisting her knife out of her pocket and twirling the weapon around in her fingers before plunging it into the bark of the opposite tree. _Haven't the Peacekeepers found you by now?_

She ignores the question for a moment, then takes a breath because it's one of the most inevitable facts of life in District Two - that if you do something wrong, the Capitol will make you pay for your crimes, most usually with the death or torture penalty that was ever-so-common among the districts - and it's not as though Clove hasn't thought of it before, either. It's occupied her mind through winter nights and balmy summers, and she swallows the taste of bile that forms in the back of her mouth (partly because she's stronger than that, partly because she can't afford enough food to keep on throwing up in fear), and relishes in the acrid aftertaste. _I think that they've forgotten about you, _she decides to say.

_How could somebody forget you? _He asks in an inquisitive manner, leaning over in her personal space, his breath smelling like peppermint and bacon, and alluring and fatal combination; Cato's lips are tinged with blue paste, perhaps poison tests from earlier in the day.

Clove tries out a faint smile, hands curling around one another; her nails are chipped and broken unlike the manicured nails of District One trainees who had visited the previous week and her hands are dry from lack of expensive moisturizer, money that she would rather spend on new weapons and bottles of water, loaves of stale bread from the Black Market. _Is that supposed to be a compliment, Cato?_

_I don't compliment people - especially girls,_ Cato emphasizes and it's just like they're seven years old again, painfully oblivious to the dangers of the world before them._ C'mon, the training center's open for a few more hours, and I think that I can squeeze out the ranking lists from the Dean before he posts them on the doors tonight._

She raises an eyebrow, settling on an I_ don't train with you._

_Why not? _Cato asks, as if everything in the world is just so simple, which she knows he knows isn't.

_We're not in the same social circle, as you're quite well aware,_ she says, sharply; life at the Academy should be solely based on training and weapon accuracy, but everything is more complicated than that. There are exclusive social circles, teams that have trained together since they were toddling infants, families bound together by blood rites and human sacrifices from the beginning of time, forming élite Career Alliances and semi-destructive friendships that always have an unfortunate end with one member dying, the other prized with insanity and victory. Clove had always been sitting at the outskirts of the tables in the organized canteen, tracing circles with her knife and engraving initials upon the lunchroom tables, sometimes being able to leave the canteen early to squeeze in a few more training hours before the daily examinations and monthly rankings; she didn't quite belong there, and everybody including her knows it.

_So what? In the Games, I won't be choosing members based of social circle._

_The Career Alliance? That's a social circle, right there, _Clove points out — when she had been younger and more fortunate, Clove had stolen some of the tapes from the library downtown and watched them on the flat screen television, eyes glued to the gory scenes in front of her, watching in fascination as her idol, Enobaria, carved her name into the forehead of her victims, languid actions as though she had all the time in the world. Everything about the Games was something out of a story - a sadistic story is a story nonetheless - and completely attainable if she worked hard enough and was good enough to be the best; there wasn't really any luck involved in the matter; _just skill, cunning, and seduction_ her mother had taught her.

_If there's another tribute who has some quality to redeem their poverty, I'll bring them along. Remember Finnick Odair? Or that D11 kid from last year? They won with the Career Alliance._

It was common knowledge of the anomalies of the Games, the rare ones that made it out alive instead of the more deserving Career tributes, but it wasn't as though it happened every year, enough of a threat that it would happen again, Clove thinks. _Yes, but the kid from last year snapped their throats and poisoned their drinks with nightlock when they were terrorizing the unfortunate victims._

He scratches back of his hand, and Clove notes that the sword has been placed back in its sheath in the belt looped around his waist and quirks a faint smile that never quite reaches her dull eyes. _Are you coming, though?_

_Only if I can use the reality room first,_ Clove objects. And then the two of them are running up the hill, a determined look in their eyes, never stopping to look at one another to laugh or giggle or do anything that children could have done, frolicking in the meadows without a care in the world, and they never stop running until the goal is met, because they're older now, and playtime is over.

.

The two of them are soaked in sweat, drowning in the bitter liquid, heads bobbing in and out dangerously as if the sweat is water accumulating by the rushing shore, pounding waves; her head pounds slightly, and Clove fingers the knife that she's kept in her pocket since she was seven years old and places it in her training bag before leaving the locker room. _I'll drive you home, _Cato catches up to her, long legs in easy walking gait.

She raises an eyebrow in suspicion, because people always have ulterior motives, and fellow trainees have the most ulterior motives of them all; maybe Cato's different though - he could be a friend. An ally. Maybe he cares — no. Nobody cares. _You__ know that I don't have a home, Cato._

_The Peacekeepers are right around the corner, over there in the yellow car._

_I see them, of course, _she mutters. All the cars in District Two are a steely grey or an opaque white, perhaps a golden bronze-tinged one reserved for the overwhelming number of Victors (of those who still lived to tell their tales); everything about District Two blends in with the shadows, with the bright electric lights of the faded sky in the dewdrop-fresh day, a backdrop of scintillating stars and darkness galloping inwards in the night, a checkered pattern of the night-and-day-sky, she's noticed. _I can just walk 'home'. _Home is underneath the swaying branches of the willow tree. It's the most non-dysfunctional home's she's ever had.

_The weather's bad outside. We can train together at my house, _Cato says.

_At your house? Is it a training center or something? Anyway, I've got better things to do._

_Too late, my brother, Alexander, is already here. Be nice, _he warns as though she's the one who doesn't know how to behave in societal functions — it's as though they're just a boy and a girl for a moment, two friends, and Clove quirks her lips into a smile before lowering the action. With her heart and mind gearing up and the castle walls are lifted once more, the twisted and foul inner workings of her mind deliberately forcing her to know the inevitable - that this is all a game, that everything in life is a game, but she'll play a long. Just this once.

_Aren't I always?_

.

Alexander Ludwig dies in the 70th Annual Hunger Games.

Clove walks numbly up to the Ludwig mansion, bare feet trodding upon the glossed over pavement of the richer part of town, out of place with the mansions and suburban white-picket house families that she could only dream of, with her tattered clothing and blood-stained legs, nicks and cuts trailing across her arms. A line of people offering condolences stand outside of the mansion, exchanging looks with one another about _oh, look at that poor girl, isn't it dreadful _and then turn away, noses and chins held high as she makes her way through the line, curving quickly, muttering _excuse me, sir, excuse me, miss _and then she's at the front of the line and rings on the doorbell.

The door is painted black. It used to be white, like everything else in the Ludwig mansion. Things are different now, she realized; forces far greater than they have fathomed have banded together and wrecked it all. The door opens to stony grey eyes, and something akin to weakness flickers in them; _Cato, your brother died, but you can't do whatever you want. You have to keep on training. _It's nothing that she wants to say, but she's Clove Fuhrman, and a girl like her doesn't say _I'm so sorry for your losses _because she's not sorry and people die; it's the Games, after all.

Cato lets out a throaty laugh and slams the door; she walks down the congregated streets back to the willow tree, cold._  
_

.

She goes back to her real home one day. Her father lounges across the couch, alive. He's alive (she didn't kill him), and there's the slightest bit of relief within her, but then the sick sadness that plagues her conniving, dysfunctional paper heart. He nods at her and she takes a glass of orange juice from the kitchen table; he retreats back into the study table, calmly speaking across the telephone, and it's just how it used to be. The days fly by in a blur, summers and winters and snowy Decembers, until it's reaping day —

Clove sits on a pastel white chair in the dining room, languidly stabbing the tines of a silver fork into a piece of unsubstantial salad and pushing the coral,plate aside, gulping down a glass of orange juice, fingers skimming over a red plastic cup which she grabs; across from her, her father sits at one side of the table, a new girlfriend on the other and she lets the words slip out of her mouth without meaning for them to.

_You're in my mother's seat,_ Clove murmurs, fingers clenched around a red plastic cup which is filled with a mixture of milk and water and she wouldn't be surprised if her father had dropped in some whiskey in there to make her a more submissive, obedient child. She downs the liquid anyway, mixing in the back of her throat with trail mix and whatever food she can get her hands on; it's not as the Academy is such an exclusive training center so that they'd supply food to their trainees. Trainees are taught to go for days without food and a sip of water from Rank 4 to make sure that they'll grasp this once in the Arena - she's watched some of the trainees in her rank do foolish and desperate things in desperate times.

_Oh, I'm sorry_, the girlfriend apologizes, still sitting on the mahogany chair; Clove toys around with the crumbs on her plastic plate and sends Girlfriend #15 a stern look, hurt muddled between an otherwise stern expression. _Would you like me to move, darling? _Her mother used to call her darling.

_Nonsense_, her father interjects. _Clove was just leaving anyway._

Twenty minutes later, she hurls her knife across the room, in her last session before the fateful Reaping at noon, thinking of the bullseye as her father's head and the weapon misses the target by about a foot all three attempts. Cato walks over, a certain arrogant walk in his step that seems to have been implanted since his mother's death, and places a rough hand on Clove's shoulder, who flinches from the contact, grim face never wavering. _Conceal, don't feel_, he murmurs in her ear, withdrawing back and smiling languidly._ It's worked wonders for me._

_So that you're a complete ass now? Because that hasn't changed, _she replies back — it's not as though Cato seems to want pity for his brother's death, so she won't give it to him. It isn't as though he deserves pity, anyways.

_I have a chance of winning the Games now - nice people don't win, Clover,_ he teases. _See you at the reaping._

The reaping is expected — Clove Fuhrman, they call her name; there's a pregnant pause of silence wherein she ponders upon this rather foolish decision, because it's not as though she's like all the rest of the children of District Two would only go in the Games to prove to their family that they're worthy of recognition and love - she doesn't have a family (that gives a damn) anymore, so there's no reason to walk up onto that stage unless to prove to herself that she's worthy, and that's reason enough to risk her own life - for a matter of foolish pride. They call his name too, and they shake hands roughly, a promise in their steely eyes to kill the other.

.

Preparation for the Games goes by in a whirlwind of colors ―

She's placed in a chariot, something akin to fire flaming from her bronze dress (Spartan warriors, nothing but the best for District Two) and Clove looks behind herself in a movement of weakness and sees that District Twelve is actually on fire, and the roses are being thrown their way, the crowd admiringly shouting the names, "Katniss and Peeta" and Clove thinks that it's almost nauseating the way that the Capitol favors the District which has the least chance of surviving, until Cato looks at her with something akin to anger, as though this new uprising district is something of a threat, and she only looks forward, murmuring the words, _I'll kill Lover Boy. You can take the girl down._

_Lover Boy?_ He asks, his lips sliding into a smirk. _Where'd you get that from?_

She rolls her eyes, and thinks that boys (and people in general) are more oblivious than usual, which is strange to fathom. _Don't you see the way that he looks at her, when she's not looking at him? It's sort of obvious, really. Don't worry, though. Now that we know about this newfound infatuation, we can use it to exploit the two of them._

_Think that they could be useful?_

_They're from District Twelve, Cato. District Twelve. Are you serious - could they be useful? Of course they could be, potentially, but we'll have to wait until the scoring to find out just how much of a threat they contend in the Games._

.

So when it's announced that The Girl On Fire receives a score of 11, Clove pictures the stupid girl's head being snapped off, with a knife or a sword, begging for forgiveness, begging to stay alive, and then the delicious scream before death. Her entire interview is a failure, needless to say. The most important part was when she flapped around in a stupid dress that turned into fire, and Clove imagines the fire tearing down Katniss's fires - how ironic and wonderful that would be. She could already imagine her knife tearing into thick flesh and wonders if it's possible to hate somebody so much.

Clove watches an old tape that night. It's of the 69th Annual Hunger Games —

The one with the most on-screen violence. They're just a mass of plain children blending in with one another, standing on pedestals, some with a look of death in their eyes (because they'll die before the day is even over, and worst of all, they already know that), some with the fiery rage buried within, ready to be released onto the nearest victims. Behind the screens, fingers skim over a paper — a paper with a name, the first Career that the Capitol will decide to torture, balls of fire rolling down hills, gruesome burn marks scorching the skin which peels off, revealing layers of blood and flesh that no aloe vera sponsor bottle can cure. _We'll kill her first. Then Lover Boy. Then, the boy with the disability, _she mentions to Cato who lounges across the couch, who carries his sword like it's his savior, smirk forever implanted.

_All in one day? Don't get ahead of yourself. Just let the killings happen in the moment._

_That's how you get yourself killed, idiot. You have to plan everything out - so first, her, then him, then District 10; the boy from District Four's annoying, _Clove mutters, throwing one of the training knives she had nicked from the Capitol rooms across the wall, because no matter how much she practices, it'll still not be enough to win, she thinks. When it comes down to the moment, it's about luck and cunning, not skill.

_Annoying? _Cato raises an eyebrow, picking the knife off of the wall and throwing it back to her; she catches it moments before it skims past her ear, blood drops trickling down her bare neck.

_He was staring at me during practice._

_Maybe you intimidated him. Maybe he likes you._

_Cato, this is the Games. Love is something stupid that's reserved for people like District 12 to rely back on for when they can't get enough sponsors, which is actually working really well. So, then we'll get down to the top four -_

_The Career Alliance._

_And Glimmer goes first, then Marvel if we can catch him._

_Which we will, _she tells herself because Clove won't open up to the possibility that anybody else will win but one of them — they're District Two, the warriors. They have to win.

_And then that just leaves -_

_Us. _They don't say anything after that, because it's the inevitable - in their plan, they'll be the two left, battling to death on the Cornucopia, and only one can make it alive - that one of them will die, so they just look out in silence over the fake city, all smiles and cheers, and drift off into their last peaceful slumbers.

.

The Bloodbath is wondrous — blood stains her array of jeweled knives, and Clove falls into a frenzy, a rhythmic pattern of kill (or be killed); the blood runs down her black Games uniform, resilient to the forces of fire and floods, the best that sponsors could afford. _You're a good girl, Clove, _Glimmer notes at nighttime, the two of them taking the first watch, taking a cigarette out of her backpack, and watching the smoke drift into the air. _But you see, boys like Cato with stone hearts don't have feelings for girls like you. They don't have feelings at all._

_The smoking's going to kill you, _Clove notes, twisting a knife in her hands, ignoring the comment about Cato, because she could care less.

_Somebody else will kill me first. Maybe it'll be Cato, maybe it'll be you - who knows? Or maybe I'll kill you first._

_You don't seem to care about winning._

_I'm a survivor, Clove. Not a victor. _In the morning, Glimmer lays a hand upon Cato's thigh, the two of them start making out for no other reason but for sponsors, Clove sharpens her knife with the fire, stabbing lizards and other scaly creatures, and Marvel just looks nervous and uneasy, waiting to make a break for it but then remembering that he couldn't even make it to the Top Ten without the Career Alliance.

Their chances of survival seem a little grimmer.

.

Clove lies upon the grass, staring up at the empty sky, cloudless with just the endless streaming of flittering birds, and resists the pounding in her brain, wiping away the blood that falls out of her hand, trickling upon the grass until it's nothing more than an overflow, and then there's no more blood left to spill or perhaps her vision is blurred and blackened until she can't see anymore. Clove thinks that this is what the Games is meant to be — not a glorious attempt for bringing pride to your family for seven generations or even proving yourself to your district, that you're not just that insignificant child, that you're somebody important; it's about the Capitol changing your perspective, the slightest bit of hope implanted in the depths of your brain that you might actually survive this hell, and then reducing what had used to be a brutally vicious person into a pitiful, scared child. I've_ always wanted to love someone,_ she murmurs, Cato falling in and out of her blurred vision, and hates how weak her dying words sound but say them nonetheless. _I guess that you'll have to do, for now._

_What do you mean for now? You're dying, _Cato spits out, wiping the blood from his head with a cloth, securing the wound with a strip of paper feeling material, as though healing a fatal wound could be so simple. They're Careers — they know better than that much, but in desperate times, foolish people do desperate things, she thinks; and for a moment, Clove stares up into his clouded blue eyes, and remembers the boy who used to be her friend, and for a moment, they're not the Careers who will kill anybody who stands in their path, just two scared children who hang onto each other like corded lifelines (but then the cord tears, the few moments where the fraying threads of a wire turn deadly).

_And so are you. You've been dead for a long time, Cato_, Clove mutters out and her frame slumps against the silver Cornucopia, head bashed in, and then he feels nothing but the overwhelming surge to win (and kill) but aren't they the same thing?

.

**i think i'm going to be working on a finnickannie oneshot for febiigge next; there are some skins characterizations - mainly jal, effy, and slight cassie - in here and i wasn't sure how to end it exactly so i left like it like this i'm sorry hopefully this didn't burn your eyes out ―**

**********happy birthday, nicole! i don't know you too well but i love your stories and you seem really nice so have a wonderful birthday, c: **  



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